


Mon Petit Monstre

by DisraeliGears



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #DrunkenKissesChallenge Fest, Drunken Confessions, DrunkenKissesChallenge, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Lap Sitting, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, drunken kisses, naked Will, un-naked hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisraeliGears/pseuds/DisraeliGears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will gets drunk in Saint Tropez, and comes home to find his housemate drinking alone.<br/>A stark (and naked) realization occurs, brought on by alcohol. </p><p>Written for the Hannibal CreAteIve Drunken Kisses Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon Petit Monstre

**Author's Note:**

> Written for devereauxsdisease, because she slaved away over a Space Dogs fic for me, and hannibalsdong, who is patiently waiting for porn.  
> Come visit me on Tumblr @ DisrealiGearsGoesTumblin

It was about ten after one in the morning when Will half stepped, half fell out of the cab in front of the enormous bungalow in Saint Tropez.  
“Merci.” Will said blearily, waving the cab away. He stood on the end of the sweeping cobbled drive, swaying slightly.  
It had been a full night. When he returned from an afternoon trying unsuccessfully to catch something in the bright blue ocean, the house had been completely empty, and the car Will and Hannibal shared was gone. Will had dithered about the house, had a shower, browsed the internet for Swordfish fishing expeditions, but when Hannibal hadn’t returned by seven p.m. to start dinner, Will had been stumped. Hannibal always made dinner, without fail, to be eaten by seven thirty. This wasn’t very ‘European’, apparently, but Will was hungry by then and so, that was when they ate.  
Will had looked through the fridge without much interest. He’d found himself craving cheap trash food more than once over the last couple months, but residual fear of the man monster that shared his house had overshadowed that desire. The man monster, however, was gone…  
Will had called a cab and gone out to an ‘English-style pub’, as the cab driver had called it. Of course, this was Saint Tropez, so even the pub was swankier than any Will had been in. Nonetheless, he’d nearly cried in delight when he’d seen ‘beer batter fish and chips’ on the menu. He ordered it and a pint of Guinness, and tucked in like a man starved. He was pretty sure Hannibal didn’t know what ‘beer batter’ was. He probably thought it was a rock band  
By the time he’d polished off his fish and chips, he’d drank two full pints, and he ordered another one to go with a ludicrously sticky and unreasonably delicious serving of sticky toffee pudding. He licked the plate clean, because he damn well wanted to and no one was here to tell him he was ‘being rude.’  
He was just finishing his third pint when a young woman, about thirty or so, had come over to his table. She said he looked lonely, and Will had been surprised to hear an English accent. As it turned out, she and two brothers were from London, but staying in the city for the winter and had been craving something at least resembling English pub food. She’d invited him along to a local club, which Will knew was a terrible idea, but the three Guinness’s stridently disagreed, and so he’d accompanied them.  
Two shots of whiskey and most of a giant cocktail called a ‘Bastarde’ later, and Will was dancing in amongst the privileged youths. It was hot and sweaty in the crowd, and the English girl had come dancing up to him. She reached out to him and unbuttoned his shirt, grinning mischievously. Despite the welcome inrush of cool air across the sweaty skin, Will felt a sudden seizing of discord in his chest. She’d reached out, still smiling, and tried to run her hands across the smooth planes of his stomach, and the purple scar that bisected it. Will had snatched her wrist, stopping her hand a millimeter from his skin.  
He didn’t want her to touch him. He was too drunk to rationalize why, but he knew it wasn’t her physical contact he wanted. He’d dropped her hand, and blinked at her, then turned on his heel and left without another word. He’d wanted to go home, so he did.  
And now, he was standing on the end of the driveway, shirt unbuttoned, inexplicably smeared in glitter, and smelling like Bols Blue and other people’s sweat.  
Will started up the driveway, his feet and legs more or less following his instructions. The car was parked in its spot, and Will beamed to himself. It was a Ferrari 458, in blood red (because of course), and he adored it like a firstborn child. He walked up to it and lay across its hood, hugging it and pressing his cheek to it’s warm paint.  
“Are you okay, my baby?” he cooed, “Did the bad man hurt you?”  
When no answer was forthcoming, Will planted a kiss on the car and straightened back up, after a fashion, and went into the house.  
It was silent inside, and as it always did, smelled of subtle expensive cologne. Will kicked off his shoes by flapping his feet about, sending one flying into large pot of papyrus and the other into the depths of the closet.  
He was tempted to say loudly, ‘honey! I’m home!’, but thought better of it, considering it was after one a.m., and he didn’t want to be breakfast tomorrow.  
Will craned his neck as he moved through the house, looking for Hannibal in his usual areas. The kitchen was empty, although Will’s dishes had been washed and were in the drying rack. The sitting area was devoid of life, as was the study. Will shrugged off his search as a bad job and wandered off to his room, where he stripped out of his clothes and entered the on suite bathroom. He turned on the shower and let the water rush over his skin, removing the sugary sweet residue of spilled drinks and most of the glitter. He used the fancy shampoo and conditioner Hannibal bought him because it smelled nice, then toweled himself dry. The water had a semi sobering effect, and when he stepped out back into the room, naked and drying his hair roughly, he considered his pile of stained and sticky clothes.  
Washing machine, he decided. Before Hannibal sniffed them out and made some underhandedly nasty comment.  
Will wrapped his towel around his waist and gathered the pile into his arms. He still felt tipsy, but more mellow now, as opposed to revved up. It was a comfortable, companionable feeling.  
Will padded down the hall, water running down his back from his damp hair. He passed the gigantic and luxuriously appointed kitchen, slipping through the wide hall that traversed the house, and was about to enter the laundry room, when he froze in place, looking back over his shoulder.  
Hannibal was sitting in the living room.  
It made sense Will had missed him; he was sitting between the piano and the huge picture windows, looking out over the nighttime sea. He was in an overly expensive Italian leather armchair, his long legs crossed. In his delicate hands, he held a glass of white wine, which he was swirling absent mindedly. His back was to Will.  
Will stared at the figure in the dimly lit room.  
There was an ache in his chest, growing exponentially the longer he looked. It felt as though a hand was gripping him by the aorta and squeezing and tugging, trying to slowly but surely wrench it from his rib cage.  
How familiar the image was… how many times had Will sat across the table from the man, or across his office, and been presented with exactly this? He’d seen it when Hannibal had been his only friend in the world, seen it again when he’d been his most profound and bitterly hated enemy. Seen it in the depths of his grand seduction, and even after when he’d nearly died on the floor in Baltimore. He’d woken up to the cross-legged figure thousands of times after it all, jolting awake and jostling his sleeping wife. The dreams weren’t always hatred filled and violent. Sometimes, they were ridden with guilt and regret. Others…  
Will let out a low, shaking breath.  
There had been moments, so achingly tender and intimate, when they were healing after leaping from the cliff into the Atlantic. Moments of fingers gliding across newly formed skin, welcoming it into the world like a newborn babe. Gentle hands wiping away freshly weeping blood, or sweat from a fevered brow. Moments of eye contact, fleeting and frightening it their intensity. After, there had been less need for the touches and closeness, and so they had become more comfortable in one another’s space. But the memories stayed, vaulted in Will’s mind like delicate china, so devastatingly beautiful but too rarified to really take out and examine.  
But now, Will remembered. Oh, he remembered. The alcohol had slithered into the lock and opened the vault, dumping the china onto the floor. It was everywhere at once, and it hurt.  
Will slowly lowered his clothing to the ground. He stepped into the sitting room, walking silently across the carpet on his bare feet. As he neared, he could see Hannibal more clearly.  
Hannibal was in a gorgeous fitted ash grey suit and dark blue shirt, open at the collar rather than with a tie. His hair was slightly longer than it had been when Will had found him in Florence, although now struck through with glossy silver in his bangs. His Audemars Piguet watch glinted in the lamplight as his wine swirled.  
Is Hannibal…in love with me?  
The question still followed him around, doomed to be repeated over and over until Will got his answer. But he didn’t need a fucking answer.  
He was standing in the middle of the living room, wrapped in a towel, watching the man for whom he had divested his entire life, and he knew at his very core, carved into each of his bones, monogrammed onto his skin, that Hannibal Lecter was in love with him.  
The man who’d cleaned up Will’s vomit when he’d been fevered and delirious, and not said a word. The man who’d sat and calmly taken every furious word Will had thrown at him when they’d decided to hash out and lay bare their fraught past. The man who brought Will coffee every morning in bed, candies from the patisserie on Sundays and a horribly ugly Hawaiian shirt with a pattern of a man playing a ukulele on the beach with a dog, which Hannibal said looked exactly like Will and Winston. Will had laughed and teasingly said, ‘ah, go to hell’, to which Hannibal had smiled widely and replied ‘eventually perhaps, but not without you.’  
Yes, Hannibal Lecter was in love with him. What Will was just coming to realize, though, was that Will Graham loved Hannibal Lecter just as much.  
Will’s shaking hands went to his waist and hooked into the towel. With a fluid movement, he untucked it and it fell to the floor with a quiet thump.  
The noise didn’t surprise Hannibal in the slightest, but he did sigh.  
“Yes, Will?” he said, not looking back.  
Will said nothing. He took five quiet strides until he was standing just behind the chair. This close, he could smell the delicate cologne and the sweet orange oil shampoo.  
He reached over Hannibal’s shoulder and gently grasped the wine glass, lifting it from the man’s unresisting fingers. He placed it on the lacquer piano carefully, minding the wobble.  
Then, in small confident steps, he walked in front of the seated man and stood before him, utterly nude except for the odd droplet of water escaped from his curls.  
With the exception of a tiny harsh intake of breath, Hannibal gave no real sign of shock. His eyes, which had been staring ahead, were now level with Will’s belly button. They skated over the shape in front of him, and then slid steadily upwards until they met Will’s, storm grey to burnished amber.  
Will didn’t move, just gazed back, eyes hooded.  
The hand that had been swirling the wineglass clenched convulsively.  
Leaning down, Will placed both hands on the back of the chair, one on either side of Hannibal’s head. Their faces were closed, about six inches or so. Will could smell the white wine on Hannibal’s warm breath.  
First with one knee then the other, Will climbed onto the chair, straddling over Hannibal’s lap but not resting on him at all.  
Will knew his cock was already part of the way to being hard, drunk or not. There was no way to hide it.  
They stared at each other, Will panting slightly. Part of him knew he should be afraid, but he felt emboldened. Powerful.  
“Will…” Hannibal said quietly. His gaze was dark and getting darker, staring up under sweeping lashes.  
“If you wanted me.” Will said, eyes darting down to the elegantly curving cupid’s bow, which flexed as the lips pursed slightly, and then back, “You…could have me.”  
Hannibal’s chin tilted up. His eyes were pools of molten brown sugar in the angled low light.  
“Do you want me to have you?”  
The voice was silk and cream, pouring from a mouth made of sin and absolution.  
Will tried to breathe, but no air entered his lungs.  
He nodded infinitesimally.  
Glacially, tectonically slow, Hannibal leaned forwards. His breath ghosted again across Will’s mouth and chin, and then ever so gently, he pressed his lips over Will’s bottom one.  
For a moment that lasted a lifetime, his mouth was barely there on Will’s, soft as a butterfly’s passing flutter.  
Letting out a quivering breath that turned into a tiny moan, Will dipped his head, deepening the kiss. Their lips slipped together, sweet and flavored of Riesling, fitting like watchmaker’s cogs.  
Desire crashed through Will in a wildfire rage. He opened his mouth, tongue darting forward across the seam of the other man’s lips, inviting him. He wanted so badly.  
Slowly and luxuriantly, Hannibal licked into Will’s welcoming mouth, his tongue hot and needy. Will whimpered again, both hands coming up from the chair and into Hannibal’s sleek hair. His quivering legs gave way and he lowered himself into the man’s lap.  
Hannibal growled in his throat at the new position, both hands coming at once to grasp Will by the waist and pull him closer. He turned his head, teeth sharp as they nipped into Will’s lips.  
Will made a mewling noise and ground his now very hard cock into the front of Hannibal’s suit. He gasped at the contact, tugging handfuls of silver hair hard.  
“You’re drunk, Will.” Hannibal said, pulling back just far enough so that he could speak His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were open now, boring into Will’s.  
Keening, Will shook his head stubbornly.  
“I want…. I want you to…” he mumbled, tipping forward in seeking Hannibal’s mouth, still rutting against his abdomen.  
Hannibal drew back as Will drew closer.  
“You want me to fuck you.” It was a statement, not a question.  
Will nodded, clutching Hannibal’s face closer and shivered at the luscious sound of the word in Hannibal’s accent. Hannibal seemed to allow him for a moment, letting Will take his mouth again in a deep and hard kiss.  
But then Hannibal tilted his head back again, away from Will.  
“I won’t fuck you, Will.” He said, voice almost a whisper.  
Will inhaled sharply and turned his head abruptly to the side. Shame and rejection flashed in his guts, and he felt like he’d been slapped. He made to get up off Hannibal’s lap, but a hand caught him by the chin, gripping it tight, and turning his head back to face front.  
“I won’t fuck you.” Hannibal said again, ignoring the hiss that escaped between Will’s teeth, “Not like this. Not when you are without all your cognitive faculties.”  
Will blinked, hands now on Hannibal’s shoulders, gripping hard.  
“The Will I want, the Will I am going to make love to…” Hannibal’s face tilted slightly to the side and he paused in thought, eyes examining Will’s face minutely, “will know precisely what it is he is asking for.” One of the hands that had been gripping Will’s waist slipped down, one long finger sliding along the length of Will’s cock as it descended, causing Will to lurch forward, face diving into the crook of Hannibal’s throat.  
“The Will I want is going to come to me, willing and despicable creature that he is,” Hannibal’s hand came back up again, slipping around behind and grabbing a handful of Will’s ass, squeezing hard, “and when I am inside of him,” Hannibal’s voice was low now, his lips right in Will’s ear, while Will whimpered into his neck, mouthing the skin blindly, “he will feel every second of it and remember it every day until he dies.” And one delicate finger dipped between Will’s cheeks, brushing along the cleft to the little hole in a teasing light stroke.  
Will’s hips bucked forward, driving his straining erection into Hannibal. Will could feel a similar hardness beneath his own, and he tried to grind into it.  
Hannibal placed both his hands back on his hips, stopping his desperate rocking.  
“But that will not be now. You must sleep it off, mon petit monstre.” His voice was sweet, soft and gentle. Forgiving.  
“Please.” Will whispered, lips against Hannibal’s jugular.  
“Yes. Soon. I promise.”  
Hannibal slid his hands underneath Will’s legs; they felt both detached and like jelly. He stood, holding Will aloft effortlessly. Sober, Will almost certainly wouldn’t have allowed himself to be carried, but now he soaked it in, arms winding around the man’s neck, legs around his waist. He buried his face into Hannibal’s hair.  
Hannibal carried him to his own room, not Will’s, turning off lights as he went with his elbow. He lowered Will into the bed, covering him in the light blanket. Will gripped his arm as he withdrew, trying to tug him down.  
“I will return, Will.” And he placed an achingly sweet kiss to Will’s temple. Will let him go hesitantly.  
Tucked under the blanket, Will watched Hannibal undress, each layer shed and placed meticulously on a hanger and returned to the closet, or placed in a hamper. In just his dark briefs, he disappeared into the bathroom, and Will heard water running.  
By the time he felt the bed dip and the covers move, he was drifting. Sleepily, he turned to Hannibal, who was facing him, an adoring smile on his face.  
“Sleep.” He said gently, his hand reaching out under the covers for Will’s.  
Will took his hand, but then pulled himself closer, his naked body pressing into Hannibal’s.  
“You still have underwear on.” Will whispered, frowning.  
“And I will continue to do so.” Hannibal shifted closer and pressed their foreheads together, “Rest. I will be here.”  
Will sighed deeply and resignedly, but his eyelids were drooping. He shuffled closer, burying his face into Hannibal’s chest hair and clinging to him like a baby koala.  
A rumble against his face suggested quiet laughter. 

 

 

The next morning, Will awoke extremely warm. His eyes slipped open, the bright early morning light stabbing into his brain. He groaned and turned his head.  
He was appliquéd to Hannibal’s side, cheek rested on the man’s furry chest, their legs a tangled knot. His hand was laced with Hannibal’s hand, resting on his softly rising and falling belly.  
Hungover or not, Will felt a sweet and merciless ache at the intimacy of the moment, watching Hannibal’s sleeping face, so guileless and open. He remembered the desperate and cloying desire from the night before, hungry and rabid. But Hannibal had tempered him, carried him to bed and held him as he slept.  
Love. That was what love was. It was easy to define, to touch and feel. To taste.  
Will slowly smiled, squeezing the hand holding his. As he did so, the closed eyes slid open, revealing the perfectly clear and lucid owner behind them.  
“I thought you were asleep.” Will said. His voice hurt to push out of his throat, emotion blocking it in.  
Hannibal’s lips slowly curved into a smile.  
“How are you feeling?”  
Will grimaced. All things considered, he felt okay, but his head throbbed.  
“Like I’m not twenty anymore.”  
“I only ask…” Hannibal’s smile suddenly became significantly more naughty, “because if you recall…I did make you a promise.”  
Will’s eyebrows began to rise. The ache in his torso was quite quickly being replaced with something else. Will slid their joined hands down Hannibal’s belly, over his thin briefs, and Will found himself smirking back at what he felt there.  
“Oh, I see.” Will said in mock seriousness, “And do you intend to make good on that promise?”  
In an abrupt and almost frightening display of physical strength, Hannibal had him on his back. He loomed over Will, their bodies pressing together.  
“Oh yes, mon petit monstre. Every word.”


End file.
